


three times three, when it is not equal to nine.

by Jocondite (jocondite)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-11
Updated: 2006-09-11
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:20:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jocondite/pseuds/Jocondite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A boozy get-together at Orlando's leads to a round of dares and bad decisions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	three times three, when it is not equal to nine.

**(one)**

Orlando’s living room is usually a perfect picture of untidiness. Tonight, it’s even worse; the clubs in Wellington may have been dead, but that proved no deterrent to the having of a good time. Astin bowed out after a couple of drinks, and Viggo was off with Sean on some unspecified business, but Orlando had been more than happy to offer up his apartment for after-clubbing drinks and poker.

He might live to regret that, Billy decides, squinting at the chaos. The poker game’s been abandoned, cards spread over the carpet like a fall of autumn leaves. Empty cans of beer drift in floes over the floor, and the air is sickly-sweet from the mingled reek of the joint Orli produced and Elijah's fucking cloves.

“So,” Billy says, “I dared Dom-”

“I hate you,” Dom interjects. “You are no longer the friend of my bosom. My legs are smooth, Billy, _smooth_! I’m un _manned_!”

“And _then_ ,” Billy continued, “you dared Orli here, that thing with the underwear, so now it’s Orli’s turn."

Orlando wrinkles his forehead. His eyes fail to focus.

“You could dare Elijah to act,” Dom says. He defuses the jab with a grin, but it’s sharper than his usual brand of humour. Still, they watched Flipper together last week, and haven’t quite worked through the munificent opportunities for teasing that that offered.

“I can act!” Elijah exclaims, going red. “That’s not fair. If that movie’s shit, it’s not because of my acting.”

“ _If_?” Billy crows. He can’t help himself. It isn’t really fair for them to pick on Elijah like this. It’s an Achilles heel of his, for all that he acts cocksure as anything. Cast doubt upon his acting, mention the dolphin, and he becomes as prickly as a hedgehog.

“I can act,” Elijah says. “I can act so fucking well, I swear to god, I could kick your ass at –”

“Dare you, then,” Dom says, tilting his head. “Prove it, Dolphin Boy. Why don’t you - ” he taps his fingers against his knee, considering. “Hmm. You good enough to persuade a straight man that he’s into you?”

Billy blinks at the sudden non-sequitur. Dom looks bland. He's widening his eyes, which he does when he's trying for credibility, which means that he's teasing, or up to something. Billy can't quite put a finger on it.

"But he’s got a genetic advantage," Orli protests from where he’s lying, stretched out and easy, beside Dom. ‘Too pretty. Like shooting fish in a barrel, or something. Someone absolutely blotto would - beer goggles. Easy mistake to make.”

Elijah blinks once, then twice. “Um.”

“Lay off,” Billy interjects. “Leave the lad alone.”

“Yeah,” Orlando laughs. “No need to make him perform an in- insurm- im _possible_ task. Be fair. Make him go pee in Pete’s favourite fountain again.”

“I can do it!” Elijah says, laughing. “Shut up, you fuckers. Orli, come here.”

“No-oooo,” Dom says, drawing the word out. “You need a proper control. Orli’s too drunk.”

“And he’s dead easy when he’s drunk,” Billy reminds them helpfully. “Remember that girl he pulled last weekend?”

Orlando flips him the bird, and Elijah turns to look at Dom.

Dom stares back for a few seconds, brow furrowed, chewing on his bottom lip. Finally he gives Elijah a lopsided smile and sits back. “Nah. I’d make a very bad guinea pig. Natural immunity. Billy’s your bet.”

“Wha?” Billy protests. “No! Who says you get to decide? Bad idea!”

It sounds very certain and definite. Unfortunately, no one pays any attention.

“You have two minutes to work your magic,” Dom pronounces portentously. “Elijah, ready your charms. Bills, gird your loins.”

Elijah scrambles forwards, giggling, until he’s right in front of Billy, legs folded lotus-fashion. His knees are touching Billy’s. His eyes appear to widen, if that's physically possible, and he stares straight at Billy. Billy's starting to feel downright uncomfortable when the solemnity disappears and Elijah grins at him like a Cheshire cat. It’s frankly more disturbing than the poker face.

“Billy,” Elijah breathes, lowering his eyelids then looking up through his eyelashes in a move that Billy knows, _knows_ is pure calculation. Elijah’s large eyes are limpid and very hard to look away from. _An act_ , he reminds himself.

“Billy,” Elijah says again, so softly that Billy leans forward a bit to hear him better; Elijah’s mouth is a little open, and his lips look pink, and soft, and _fresh_ – Billy can see the inside of his mouth, wet and red. Elijah assesses the direction of his gaze, and his lashes fan his cheeks again in that artful motion. He meets Billy’s eyes again, and slowly, deliberately licks his lips.

Billy swallows, and then wishes he hadn’t, because Elijah notices the movement of his throat, and the artful look disappears, his face breaking into a beaming grin, smugly triumphant.

“First blood!” Orli whoops. “Or something like that, anyway.”

“That’s enough,” Billy says, voice rougher than he means it to be. “Everyone has to swallow, you idiot. It doesn’t-”

 _“Swallow!”_ Orli shouts, and falls over giggling against Dom’s side. Dom’s eyes have pressed themselves shut with the force of his laughter, and he’s the exact colour of a tomato.

Billy glares. “Experiment over, sorry, Doodle. I fear I’m not as appreciative of your charms as the dolphin was.”

“I still have- ” Elijah glances over at Dom, who stops laughing long enough to check his watch.

“A minute and a half,” he pronounces.

“See?” Elijah says, and he’s smug again, and Billy wants to throttle him, wants to take that look off his face – _wants to make his eyes open wide_ – no.

“Can I sit in his lap? Is that allowed?” Elijah asks, young and breathless, and Billy’s just a _toy_ to him, isn’t he, a control he can use to assess his skills, the child – because he is that, Billy reminds himself ruthlessly, eighteen barely six weeks ago – has no idea what he’s playing at, little idea what effect he’s having. None of the children know that Billy's not always ruler-straight, even Dom, although Billy's suspected he has an inkling now and then. Oh, Billy doesn’t think Elijah’s as pure and virginal as his great blue eyes testify, but he doesn’t get it. Billy’s sure he wouldn’t lick his lips – the way he is now, the little bastard – if he did.

“No,” Billy said. “You may not!” He wants to cup his hands over himself protectively, but knows full well that such a gesture would be like a red flag to a bull.

“Don’t think so, Lij. You have to act, not lap dance,” Dom says, and Billy can hear the amusement heavy in his voice. “That’d be cheating.”

Elijah scowls. “So, what, I can just look at him?” He brightens; “Can I touch him?”

 _No_ , Billy wants to say, in a manly, firm, detached and not at all alarmed fashion, but it’s rather too late for that, because Elijah puts a hand on his knee, like Viggo gentling a horse, what would be a comforting warm pressure if Billy’s pulse wasn’t so loud in his veins, and leans in –

There’s an explosive noise, _“Mmmmrrrrfff!”_ , from the corner, and Elijah jerks back upright, out of Billy’s very personal space, very personal, thank you very much. Billy’s relieved. Yes. The choking fit serves that bastard Orlando right for laughing.

Dom thumps Orli helpfully on the back. His enthusiastic aid is rather counter-productive; Orli, eyes streaming, scarlet, fights for enough breath to tell him to _fuck off, Dom_.

“I was trying to help!” Dom protests.

Orli butts his head against Dom, clearly unappeased, and Dom sighs and rolls his eyes in a martyred fashion, clambering over Orli towards Elijah and Billy.

Elijah’s hand is still on Billy’s knee, lying there forgotten until Dom pries it away.

“C’mon, Lij, over here.” He detaches Elijah from Billy, who’s still breathing a little fast, and steers him towards the couch. And then Dom grins, half a smirk, over his shoulder at Billy in a way that Billy can’t quite read.

Billy watches the way Elijah clings to Dom’s shoulders for balance, and the fond way Dom ruffles his hair until it stands up, and the way his hand curls around Elijah’s pale upper arm, steadying.

“There should be another couple six-packs in the kitchen,” Orli says.

  
 **(two)**

Dom’s lying on his back on Orli’s carpet, Billy’s head heavy on his stomach. The cannonball-like weight of it makes him feel mildly nauseated and rather like going for a piss, but Billy had been very definite about Dom’s stomach being the place where he was going to lay down his head. Arguing with Billy when he’s intoxicated is like trying to grapple with a particularly elusive jellyfish, so Dom had acceded to his muttered comments about Dom’s stomach being ‘mo’ comf’table’ and given up shoving him on to the floor.

The floor, by the way, is bloody uncomfortable. _Dom_ doesn’t have the benefit of a soft-touch mate to cozen into becoming his pillow, Elijah’s stretched out in full and drooling possession of the couch, his sneakered feet hanging off the edge a few inches away from Dom, and Orli – well, Orli was on the floor, too, at some point, laughing himself sick over something, but it occurs to Dom that he hasn’t seen him since he went to the kitchen for more beer – or was that before…?

Nah, Long-legs has probably passed out on the bathroom floor, or crawled off into the comfort of his own bed, the lucky sod. Bastard doesn’t even have any interesting cracks on his ceiling, or leprous peeling strips of paint, or anything. It’s just a uniform, tidily-painted white, and boring. Dom becomes very interested in the topography of ceilings when he's drunk. Back home, he remembers, there was a fortuitous alignment of cracks on the ceiling that looked like a leering face, like Roman carvings of satyrs, if you squinted.

His stomach growls. The joint's fault; whenever he smokes up, he ends up fucking _ravenous_. Dom wonders whether Orli has anything worth scavenging in his mess of a kitchen. Probably not; last time Dom had cause to look in there, a few weeks ago, there’d been a pristine six-pack of New Zealand beer – not quite British, of course, but a sight better than that American shite - some extremely iffy milk, and a selection of vegetables, distressed in appearance. His stomach growls again, like a leopard. Dom’d quite like a leopard. He’d keep it on a leash, and give it commands in a quiet, lethal growl, and watch it spring, deadly and gorgeous, upon his enemies. And Astin, but only to make him hyperventilate. Be fucking funny. Dom chuckles, still staring at the ceiling, still searching for patterns in the paint, and his stomach-leopard snarls again.

Billy makes a dry little snicker of a noise, like stiff fallen leaves being danced scrapingly along the pavement by the breeze, and Dom tries to hold the muscles of his abdomen still under Billy’s cheek. He strokes a lick of hair from Billy’s brow with his thumb, absently, then again, small mindless sweeps of his thumb where Billy’s forehead meets his hairline.

Elijah’s started shifting about on the couch, movements soft and muffled, and Dom can hear him making little crooning noises in the back of his throat. Dom wonders whether his eyes are shut properly; he’s seen Elijah sleep, eyes only half-lidded, before, eerie gashes of white glaring from under his lids. It’s fucking _creepy_.

He lets his own eyes close.

  
 **(three)**

Billy smiles in his half-sleep. Dom’s stroking his hair, and it feels nice. Soothing. He can understand why cats curl their spines in ecstasy and purr like electric fans under Dom’s touch. Billy’s only option, really, is to stay still and quiet, if he wants Dom to keep on doing that (and he does; his only real complaint is that it’s his forehead being gently brushed by Dom’s thumb. Given his choice, the stroking would occur somewhat lower, but that isn’t likely ever to happen.) It’s not exactly playing possum, because Billy’s that tired, and he’s sure he was quite honestly asleep only a little while ago. Maybe it was Dom’s hand that woke him, or Elijah whimpering in his sleep (he can hear him, it’s quite sweet, really, like a dog dreaming about chasing a rabbit, legs twitching); whether or no, it’s nice to wake up to.

Dom’s hand gradually slows and stops, and Billy has to consciously keep himself from complaining. The rhythm of Dom’s breathing, the gentle rise and fall of his chest under Billy’s cheek seems slower; Billy supposes that he’s drifted off to sleep.

He could doze off again, too, and easily so. He’s nearly there, his mind gone dim and hazy, when Elijah starts to move about (can’t the lad do anything quietly?). Soft muffled noises come from the couch, become incessant, and Billy’s about to crack open an eye and snarl at him, _shut the fuck up, would you_ , when Elijah moans, low and deep in his throat, and fuck, that muted whine is a zipper being tugged roughly down.

Teenagers.

Elijah sighs quietly, and Billy (he daren’t look) can’t help but imagine Elijah’s face going slack with pleasure at finally being released from the stricture of his jeans, at getting his hands on his dick. His own jeans tighten just a little at the thought.

Cocks are wasted on the young, really, Billy decides. All impatience, no time to discover how the slow torment only adds to the payoff, and not experienced enough (or perhaps not intelligent enough) to know that it’s a sight easier to keep from being discovered when you’re only rocking against your own hand through your jeans, even if the sensation is muted and the motion clumsier. There really is no excuse one can make when caught with their fly down and their hand wrapped around their cock.

Billy means to cough, to clear his throat, to make Elijah more aware of the situation. He really does. Lij deserves a good scare; if he had any brains, he’d be locked in Orlando’s bathroom well before he got his zipper down.

Billy means to, honestly; every second he stays still and quiet, muscles tense, is taking unforgivable advantage of Elijah. Or – well, perhaps the better course is just to stay quiet and hope he finishes soon. He’s barely eighteen, it won’t take him long. God knows that when Billy was his age, he was primed to go in no time flat.

Elijah would be mortified if he knew Billy was awake, and it would be an unkindness to embarrass him like that, really. _If he wanted privacy, he shouldn’t have started stroking himself off while in the same room as two of his mates_ , an insidious little voice whispers at the back of Billy’s head.

Billy can hear Elijah breathing fast and shallow, the stifled little gasps and moans kept low and throttled down to shadows of themselves. Billy can even hear (or imagines he can) the sound of Elijah’s hand moving on his cock, up and down, fast, then slower, drawing it out, then faster again.

He keeps his eyes tightly shut – it’s enough to _hear_ , the very thought of seeing it is – much better left unthought. Billy bites his lip when he realizes that he’s more than half-hard, that he’s finding the situation more erotic than amusing, now. He bites down until his lower lip aches, until his knuckles are waxen, and finally, finally, it’s too much. He only needs to move his hand a few inches to reach the demanding pulse of his erection, trapped under his jeans.

He’s not going to, though; how much worse would it be to rub at himself to the sounds of Elijah wanking, and to the pictures he can see all too clearly in his head? Elijah throwing his head back, the inviting line of his throat bare, and vulnerable, or with his cheeks pink and face flushing with heat; with his eyes creased shut with pleasure, with his eyes open and glittering and watching his own movements.

Billy thinks about Elijah’s cock, how it must be red in his fist and that if he only tilted his head slightly, and let his eyes open just a little, he could probably see it, and heat coils guiltily in his stomach. Billy pictures, then, quite unexpectedly, Dom’s slate-blue eyes eyeing him all slantendicular over the bridge of his snubbed nose, the bright New Zealand sun touching his hair and licking at the side of his neck. Another wave of heat twisted with shame passes through him, and oh god, he can’t _not_ touch his cock, he’s no saint, and never was.

Billy’d like to see a saint try to keep his halo – do saints have halos, or is that only angels, he wonders disjointedly, then decides that they must, they do in the pictures, after all – when confronted with the porn soundtrack Elijah’s providing. The film industry’s gain is the dirty-movie industry’s sore loss.

His hand creeps the inches painfully towards his cock; from the sounds Elijah’s making, quick huffs of breath giving way to little whines, almost ( _puppy_ , Billy thinks fondly), he wouldn’t notice if the sky fell down, but caution is required. He moves furtively, until finally he presses the heel of his hand against heated denim.

Billy thinks of his earlier censoriousness with dismay. Clucking his tongue at Elijah’s haste, at the fact that he thought he could lie back on the couch, scant feet from where Billy and Dom sprawled, and jack himself off at his noisy leisure - at least Elijah has his age and alcohol consumption as an excuse. Billy’s a grown man, but he has to clench his jaws tight shut to prevent himself from groaning as he rocks so carefully, imperceptibly, against the levering pressure of his hand.

It’s not even nearly like enough.

The lean muscles of Dom’s stomach – Dom can never keep any weight on, which is why, to his chagrin, he’s been condemned to the indignity of the false belly – go suddenly taut, and Billy freezes, pulse loud in his ears, but then Dom relaxes again, _back to sleep_ , and Billy curses himself, because if Elijah’s a reckless fool, how much more is Billy, still using Dom as a pillow?

On the couch, Elijah seems to have abandoned his futile attempt to keep quiet, and moans again, so loudly that it’s shocking, shockingly noisy, and oh _god_.

Billy grinds up against his hand, imagining Elijah’s spine drawn arched and taut as a bow, Elijah biting his lips, Elijah’s lips on his own; and Dom shifts again, and Billy’s eyes fly open (he doesn’t mean to look, truly he doesn’t).

He takes in briefly the sight of Lij sprawled out over the couch, hand frantic against the pale skin of his stomach where his t-shirt’s ridden up, eyes thankfully closed - and then, retinas burnt as though with a flash of sun, Billy turns his head slowly to look across at Dom.

Dom isn’t looking at him, but at Elijah, eyes hot and cold and his mouth a little open, watching every move in a way Billy doesn’t dare to.

His eyes are clear and intent, _alert_ , and not at all dulled with sleep.

Oh,

fucking

 _hell_.

Billy promptly shuts his eyes again, and lets his hand fall. Possession’s nine-tenths of American law, after all, or so films have told him, and the films wouldn’t lie to him.

“Bills,” Dom says, barely a breath, and Billy thinks about shamming sleep. He tries to stop his eyes moving under their lids, and his breath is fast – fuck.

Dom tightens his fingers in Billy’s hair, and finally Billy gives the play-acting up as a bad job. When Dom whispers “Billy,” Billy turns his head, and Dom’s looking at him _now_.

“Shhh,” Dom cautions, and Billy gives a tiny nod. Dom’s hip is hard under his head now, and he shifts, and then that hardness isn’t a belt buckle. He goes still, and then he twists until he’s eye to, well, eye with a definite ridge in Dom’s jeans. Billy breathes damply against the fabric, feeling the weight of Dom’s gaze. He resumes grinding against his own hand, almost involuntarily, and Dom says very quietly again, “Billy.”

Elijah makes a particularly loud groan.

Billy looks back up into Dom’s eyes, and they’re bright and darker than normal, pupils flaring wide against narrowed irises. Staring back at _him_ , and Billy can’t help it, he sucks in his breath and pushes his hips up against the friction of his hand, once more, and then with a shuder he comes in his pants, like a boy.

He doesn’t make a sound.

Dom, though, gasps softly, hushed-up (because Elijah’s still loudly, happily oblivious). He’s still looking straight into Billy’s eyes.

Billy breaks the stare, turns his head again until his nose brushes against Dom’s cock through his jeans. Dom’s hand goes tight in his hair again, but Billy doesn’t need to look to know that Dom’s staring at Elijah now.

He wonders whether he should try to get Dom’s flies down with his teeth. That’s quite a move, isn’t it? Sort of thing you want to watch. He settles for nuzzling against Dom’s hardness, in a way he knows to be maddeningly inadequate.

Elijah whimpers then, into the stillness, softer than before, but then he goes quiet, and the soft whisper of skin against skin ceases, and Billy supposes that he’s done, at last.

(He lasted longer than Billy did. Billy tries not to think about that.)

Dom’s wound up like a spring, waiting, even though Elijah’s now fumbling with his zipper. He gets it back up after what seems like an age, and then there’s more rustling until he finds a position he’s comfortable in. Some time after, he starts to snore, as loudly and happily as the noises he was making earlier.

Billy sits up, and Dom pulls himself upright, stands, and offers Billy a hand up. They leave the room with painstaking silence and shut the door.

  
 **(four)**

Orlando did manage to reach his own bedroom, so Dom makes sure that door’s shut, too, then pushes Billy up against the wall in the hallway and kisses him brief and fierce. He tastes like copper.

(Not that Billy let himself think about it much, but this isn’t how he thought Dom would kiss him).

Dom bites at his mouth, and Billy steers them around until _Dom’s_ back is against the wall, and then he sinks down to his knees, opens Dom’s trousers (using his hands), and closes his lips around the head of Dom’s cock.

It’s quick and fast and desperate, and in the end Billy goes back into Orli’s living room to sleep. Dom stays out in the hallway, sitting propped against the wall.

  
 **(five)**

“So,” Orlando says brightly in the morning. “Anyone want pancakes?”


End file.
